


Your love it feels so good

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anderson and Mrs. Hudson ship them so hard, Clubbing, Crossdressing, First Time, M/M, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 06:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12075042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: Sherlock is last at a quiz night and is forced by Anderson to perform in a gay stripclub. John must be with him, because he will have to record the performance.Sherlock takes the task very seriously.





	Your love it feels so good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inevitably_johnlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitably_johnlocked/gifts).



> Inspired by [this beautiful piece of art](http://stephdrawsjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/161386475297/sherlock-smooth-hat-detective-wacom-intuos-pro) by Stephdrawsjohnlock (go and give them love). Fanartists are the best.  
> The song by Sonique gives also the titles to fic.

Surely Sherlock didn't expect to lose against Anderson during a quiz night. He was confident that, with his superior intellect, would have torn him apart, but he didn't take into account all the variables, including Mrs. Hudson's choice of the quiz topic.

The Great Bake Off U.K..

Sherlock still struggled to believe that there was a tv show about ordinary people cooking cakes.

And so he ended up last in the quiz, while Anderson won.

"I refuse to acknowledge this outcome!"

"Accept it, you lost."

"It's ridiculous! An obscure and unknown tv show can't be the topic of a quiz," he protested, but their landlady tutted: "It's very famous, dear, you're probably the only Brit who doesn't watch it."

To his right, John chuckled, and Sherlock turned his head to glare at him.

"It's all your fault!"

John sputtered, "Wha-? How?"

"It was your idea of a quiz night in our house" Sherlock cried out, throwing his arms in the air.

"Now Sherlock, don't be a pathetic loser, behave like an adult, acknowledge that Anderson beat you and pay him."

John was having fun: Sherlock didn't often lose, but secretly he thought a small bath of humility would be good for him.

Sherlock sniffed and grumbled, but in the end took his wallet, looking at Anderson.

"How much?"

But the policeman shook his head. "Nope, I don't want money."

"Then what?"

"I want you to do something," he said, with a strange light in his eyes.

Oh god, Anderson wanted to force him to do something ridiculous, like to be the animator at a party of children, or to dye his hair green. It was even more funny, John thought.

"Quick, Anderson," Sherlock said intently, "it's late, and my neurons will not tolerate your presence for a long time."

"I want you to dance at the Sea Shell," Anderson proclaimed, and the light in his eyes became manic. "And good Dr Watson here will record your performance."

Both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade giggled like children, and Sherlock accepted his fate with a deep sigh and dignity. "If this is the price to pay..."

John's smile faltered, the confusion clear on his face.

"What's Sea Shell?"

"An Exotic Dance gay club: on Thursdays amateurs can perform," Mrs. Hudson explained.

"striptease, lap dance, pole dance, boylesque, things like that," Sherlock pointed out.

"But nothing vulgar, it's pretty upscale," Lestrade concluded.

John gaped: why did everyone know this place except him? He was tempted to ask, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answers, especially from Mrs. Hudson. Dear god...

"Why do I have to be the one to record him?" the doctor protested, as soon as he found the voice again.

"Because you have a good camcorder, and because we are on duty Thursday night," Anderson explained, but the strange light in his eyes wasn't nearly gone. "Problems?"

"Well... YES!"

"Why?"

"C'mon, Anderson! You could've force him to do anything, including sweeping the dry leaves in Regent's Park dressed up as Pikachu. Why this?"

"I have my reasons," Anderson said, getting up. "Thursday night, 9 PM. Don't be late."

 

*

 

John searched the Sea Shell on the Internet and looked at some videoclips of the amateur performances in the club.

Actually it was ridiculous, in a sense: men in corsets, lingeries, high heels... they really looked silly to him.

Was this Anderson's intent, to ridicule Sherlock?

John pictured him in heels and corset and shifted uncomfortably in his armchair: for some strange reason, the image that popped in his mind wasn't funny, instead it made him feel weird and strangely warm in an unappropriate way. And, suddenly, the idea of filming him made John uneasy.

"Are you sure you wanna go? After all it was just a stupid quiz night, you could call the whole thing off."

"No" Sherlock answered, and he was deadly serious. "As you said, I must behave like an adult and do what Anderson asked me."

"Jesus, you're talking like it's a matter of national security. It isn't!"

Sherlock, who was doing some research on his laptop, stopped typing and looked at John. Or better, he deduced him.

"You're bothered."

"No, I'm not" John denied quickly. Too quickly.

"Yes, you are" Sherlock insisted. Jesus, why he could never let it go?

"I'm not bothered, just surprised that you are not, at the idea of stripping in front of a bunch of strangers."

Sherlock snorted. "Not the worst thing I've done in my life."

John barked a laugh, "Oh god, I don't wanna know," and they dropped the subject, but a corner of John's brain kept on mulling on it, wondering if Sherlock's performance would have been full nude, or if the man still retained a bit of decency inside himself.

In the following days he tried hard to ignore the part of him that cheered on the first choice, and not to stare too often at Sherlock.

Sherlock, for his part, seemed absolutely blasé and at ease about the incoming event, while John was increasing skittish and nervous, so much that in the end Sherlock snapped at him. "For fuck sake, John! If you're so uncomfortable around gay men, don't come!"

John thought back at the videoclips he saw: the audience wasn't always polite and in some cases a bunch of drunks had tried to stretch their hands on the dancers before security could stop them. A surge of protectiveness overtook him and he squared his shoulders.

"No, I'm coming with you. And I say it again, I'm not uncomfortable. It's just an unusual occurrence for me... just that."

Sherlock looked intently at him. "If you say so."

"It is... now I've to go to work. See you this evening, okay?"

While John walked on the sidewalk, a thought struck him: wait! Did Sherlock just included himself too, among gay men?

His heart skipped a beat at the possibility and the doctor briefly massaged his chest.

 

*

 

Thursday evening came, John and Sherlock were admitted into the Sea Shell.

"Take a seat John, I've to discuss some details with the sound technician."

"What? There would be a soundtrack?"

"Yes, and a dance routine, of course."

John gaped. "I thought you would just strip and get over with it."

"No John," Sherlock looked at him right in the eyes. "I took this task in the most serious way, it' would be a full performance."

"Why so much effort?"

Sherlock's lips stretched in a loopside smile. "Because I'm proving a point."

That said, he disappeared in the backstage.

John fumbled with the camcorder, checking the battery and the recording mode, ignoring the man that was currently performing on stage: as he had thought, the sight of a male stripteaser in lingerie didn't appeal him.

_ "But that man isn't Sherlock," _ a voice in his mind said, and John swore under his breath: it was going to be a long night.

He put the camcorder on a near table; suddenly the lights went out and [the tune of a disco song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1AIu7SqX_UI) resounded in the air: John recognized it as an old '90s hit.

Two spotlights concentrated the beam of light on the black velvet curtain studded with glitter, which opened slowly and Sherlock set foot on the stage.

He wore his usual Belstaff and deerstalker, the only thing different from usual was that he was barefoot.

Someone from the back of the club whistled and howled, and John turned around to glare, ready to show them the temper of a soldier that had a bad day, and it worked, 'cause the audience was silent on the spot.

_ "You always make me smile, when I'm feeling down _

_ You give me such a vibe, I still live on a fire hmm" _

As Sonique started to sing, Sherlock walked forward, self confident as if he were on a catwalk and dropped the coat in a single move, revealing his slender body, clenched in purple shirt and tailored black trousers.

He swayed his hips, removed the belt and held it suggestively between his hands in front of his face, then he tossed it on the first table near the stage and proceeded to pop open the button of the trousers.

John released a breath he didn't know he was holding; he couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock, though it wasn't the first time he saw his flatmate undressed, but this was different, it was a performance made specifically to capture the attention. And, damn, it was working.

The trousers slipped to the ground, and Sherlock stepped out of them gracefully; the shirttails barely concealed a feminine printed underwear with a bright yellow smile on his crotch.

The holwing was back, louder this time, but John almost didn't hear it, too focus on Sherlock.

_ "Your love it feels so good _

_ And that's what takes me high" _

The rhythm of the music was slow, the voice of the singer almost hypnotic and perfectly suited to the cat-like sensual moves of his flatmate.

John noticed that Sherlock was looking at him, only at him, deaf to the calls of other men, and he swallowed audibly.

The buttons of the tight shirt were opened one by one, revealing smooth, hairless skin and a printed bra coordinated with the underwear.

He should be ridiculous, laughable even, so why was he wasn’t? Why he was so damn alluring? Desiderable? He was literally sex on (kilometric) legs, with his fair skins, strong muscles and a thumb hooked in the elastic band of the underwear, promising delights.

_ "Higher than I've been before _

_ Your love it keeps me alive" _

Sherlock lowered the hat on his head and looked at John from under the brim: in the dim lights of the club his eyes shone like diamonds.

Next thing, he was walking down the stage, right toward him, confident, tempting, absolutely gorgeous.

John put two fingers inside the collar of his shirt to loosen it, he felt hot, but the uncertainty he experienced in the previous days had vanished: he knew that Sherlock was doing all that to seduce him, and he was good with it. More than good.

Proving a point indeed.

Taking his decision, John beckoned Sherlock with a little gesture of the hand and smiled.

Sherlock answered by lifting a corner of his mouth and tossed the hat on the floor, freeing his dishevelled curls.

_ "Thought I should let you know _

_ When you touch me it means so much" _

Sherlock stopped in front of him and closed his eyes, swaying a little more longer on the notes of the song, lost in his own world, then inched forward, spread his legs and made the bra straps falling from his shoulders, lowering slowly, inviting, offering himself to John.

The only thing that John could see was Sherlock's perfect, marble skin, now slightly shining with perspiration, the only thing that he could smell was Sherlock, invading his nostrils, his veins, his reptile brain, the only thing that he could think was  _ "YES! He's mine, mine, mine." _

_ "When I'm alone at night _

_ It's you I'm always thinking of, oh baby" _

Sherlock bent on John and murmured to his ear, "The end of this performance is for your eyes only. Dressing room 3."

As the music faded, he straightened up and, in a last mischievous gesture, unhooked the bra and threw it in John's lap, then stepped back on the stage (offering to the ex-soldier the sight of his round-shaped, alluring bottom) and disappeared behind the curtain, chased by the whistles of the audience.

John run to the backstage as fast as his erection allowed him; he opened the door of the dressing room and locked it behind himself, leaning on the wood to look at Sherlock: he was pleased to see a matching erection covered by the fancy pants.

They moved at the same time, slotting together like two jigsaw puzzle pieces, John's arms around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock's ones around his waist. Their lips touched, at first almost reverently, then with increasing desire, and the air filled with the sounds of their moans. They kissed and kissed until they were forced to break apart to breath.

"I want you," John confessed, gently dotting the long neck with kisses.

"Then sit down, and enjoy the end of my performance" Sherlock rumbled; he pushed John on a chair and hummed the song, letting the pants slip on the floor, revealing a hard cock, already wet and shiny on the tip.

John licked his lips, and watched with hungry eyes as Sherlock took a little tube from the console table.

Petroleum jelly.

"Fuck" he breathed.

Sherlock slicked his fingers and reached behind himself, and John's mouth dropped open: it was the most erotic thing he has ever seen and had to unzip his trousers to relieve the pressure on his cock.

Breathless on exertion, Sherlock looked at him under heavy eyelids. "Aren't you undressing?"

"I..."

John was hesitant: Sherlock had the body of a model, while he was far from perfect...

"You are."

"I'm not" John snorted.

"You are to me. Please," Sherlock insisted in a low, pleading voice and John couldn't resist: he removed quickly all his clothes, took the petroleum jelly and sat down again, coating himself, and Sherlock hummed his approval.

Sherlock wiped the fingers on his tight and came closer, straddling John's hips. The former soldier couldn't resist: he grabbed two handfuls of his luscious bottom and took him in his mouth as far as he could, and Sherlock's knees buckled.

"John! JOHN!"

John closed his eyes, drunk with sensations: the bitter tang on the palate, the musky smell, the throbbing veins, the hard flesh against his tongue, and Sherlock's tiny moans and grunts.

"S-stop John, or I'll..."

John released him with a obscene loud pop and looked up at him, Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders, and John grabbed his bottom, to help him to slow down as he, inch by inch, impaled himself on John.

John gritted his teeth: the tightness and the wet warm of Sherlock's body around his cock were almost too much. Sherlock painful grip on his shoulder anchored him and he stood perfectly still, giving Sherlock time to adjust to his girth, and took advantage of his position to kiss and bite every inch of skin in front of him, leaving a trail of red, possessive marks.

Sherlock seated fully on him, his ragged breath the only sound in the dressing room, and after a few minutes he rocked tentatively his hips; John slipped his left hand between their sweaty bodies and palmed Sherlock's erection, making him shiver with delight.

"Good?"

Sherlock nodded frantically, "Yes, yes, don't stop."

John's fingers played with the slit and the fraenulum, eliciting a deep rumble from Sherlock.

"Like that?" The smile was clear in John's voice.

"Tease" Sherlock remarked in his ear, licking a long strip from the lobe to the jaw. He planted his feet on the floor, lifted and sat back on him abruptly, and both man cried out in ecstasy.

Sherlock repeated the move again and again, riding John's cock, and John grabbed his hips, slamming into Sherlock's body and latching his lips on his neck. He could feel the orgasm approaching fast, and judging by Sherlock's nails scratching his back, he was close, too.

John slid his hip a little down on the chair, changing the angle, and finding Sherlock's prostate.

Sherlock bent forward, murmuring feverish, broken words next John's ear. "Yes... almost... co-coming..."

John grasped his cock again and three hot spurts wetted his hand and stomach, and when Sherlock clenched spasmodically around him, John came with a strangled cry, and emptied himself inside Sherlock's spent body.

Sherlock lifted and let him slip out, but the former soldier didn't let him get up already and bear hugged him, high on endorphins after the best sex of his life, and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

"You... okay?" Sherlock asked, almost shyly.

"That was a hell of a performance, I think I burned some neurons." John threw his head back and grinned like a maniac, but Sherlock's look was somehow guarded.

"Something wrong?" he asked, caressing Sherlock's back in a way he hoped was reassuring.

"No."

"Don't lie to me," John chided, and Sherlock shrugged, "I was just wondering what do you want to do now."

Probably Sherlock was thinking that "Three Continents Watson" thought about that intercourse as an one-off, and John was more than happy to prove him wrong.

"Right now I want to go home and watch an additional performance of you. Tonight, and the other nights to come."

Sherlock smiled, relieved, and rested his forehead on John's, John kissed the tip of his nose, then they dressed, checked in the mirror not to be too dishevelled and left the club.

 

*

 

Anderson received a text message on his phone around 3 a.m..

It said:

**"It worked! Mission accomplished.**

**-Martha"**

and was followed by countless emojis of thumbs up and party hats.

"It was about time" he grumbled with a smile, before going back to sleep.


End file.
